Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood (19 page)

Grace turned to Hallie. Her face had fallen, tears already starting again. “Let’s go.” Grace tucked her arm through Hallie’s and steered her toward the exit. “We can stop by In-N-Out on our way back.”

“I’m not hungry.” Hallie’s voice was listless, and Grace’s heart fell as she remembered the black weeks after their father’s death: the weeping, and the sleepless nights, and the way Hallie had barely touched her food.

“You will be.” Grace kept her voice bright and upbeat. “The minute you smell those fries, you’ll be stealing all of mine.” She guided them across the street, Hallie still following obediently like a little child. “And I bet a hundred bucks, you’ll hear from Dakota before they even land in New York. They have Wi-Fi on the flight, don’t they?”

Hallie brightened, just a little. “I think so. . . .”

“See? With text, and e-mail, it’ll be like he’s not even gone,” Grace insisted. “You can Skype on your phone, too. You’ll see him every day!”

Hallie wiped her cheeks. “You’re right. And anyway, I’m going to go visit in a couple of weeks. They’ll be settled in then, and we can maybe look for a place together.”

“Right,” Grace agreed, too relieved that Hallie wasn’t in total collapse to start asking about this new plan for her to go move across the country. “See? It’s not the end of the world. He loves you, he’s not going to just disappear.”

But he did.

Not completely, and not all at once. No, it happened so gradually that Grace thought her sister was just exaggerating: playing up the wretched lover, abandoned by her soul mate. Dakota still called, and texted, and even sent mail during the first few weeks away: gift-wrapped care packages of N.Y.C. memorabilia; Polaroid pictures; scribbled lyrics. But the mail petered out, and his calls became farther and farther apart, until by the end of his first month away, Hallie was subsisting on occasional text messages that arrived at three a.m., and short fragments of phone calls that were always over too soon. Grace watched helplessly as Hallie sank into another dejected haze, watching TV all day — phone clutched by her side, just in case he called — and poring over every word and message like they held some kind of divine revelation.

“I don’t understand!” she would say, blinking at Grace in confusion. “He said he’d call, but I haven’t heard from him all week! Why is he doing this to me?”

Grace had no answers. She’d always thought Dakota was a good person. He’d cared about Hallie — about them all — so why would he fade Hallie out like this?

“Because he’s an asshole.” Palmer had no such qualms about Dakota’s character. She slurped her iced coffee, sitting across from Grace at their usual café patio on South Beverly Drive. Their table was spread with homework, but studying was the last thing on Grace’s mind.

“No, don’t say that,” Grace protested.

“Why not? He saw a chance for bigger, better things, so he cut loose and ran. Happens all the time in this town.”

“But you saw them together,” Grace argued. “He loves her.”

“And?” Palmer shrugged. She propped her cowboy boots on their spare seat and sat back in the sun. “Trust me, love is the last thing these guys care about, not when their careers are on the line.”

“But Dakota’s not like that,” Grace said weakly. “He doesn’t care about being famous, he just wants to make his music.”

Palmer hooted with laughter. “Please! It’s not like we live in the Dark Ages, he could be talking to her all the time if he wanted. But he isn’t. Which means he doesn’t.”

Grace slumped. “I can’t believe it. He seemed like such a great guy!”

Palmer slurped some more. “They always do.”

Grace stared out at the street forlornly. No matter what Palmer said, she couldn’t accept it. He loved Hallie, he had to. Dakota wasn’t just another ruthless, shallow wannabe: he’d driven Grace home from school, run out to fetch special oil paint glaze for their mom, and spent almost every night for four months with his arm draped around Hallie’s shoulder, tenderly brushing hair away from her face. No, Grace was sure, this was all some terrible mistake. He was distracted by band stuff right now, but soon he’d call, or even fly back to make things right. Hallie would make him suffer and grovel awhile, and then everything would be calm again.

“Are you going to Harry’s thing tonight?”

Grace blinked, turning back to Palmer. “What?”

“His ‘gathering.’ ” Palmer made air quotes, the pink glitter on her nails flashing in the sun. “I heard some of the gloss posse talking about it, so I guess it’s going to be a big deal.”

“I don’t know . . .” Grace tapped her pen restlessly. “That might not be a good idea.”

“Why?” Palmer gave her a sly grin. “Because you might go crazy and hook up with him in a moment of wild abandon?”

Grace laughed. “That’s never going to happen. You know I don’t have feelings for him.”

“So you’re not in love?” Palmer rolled her eyes. “We’re sixteen, who is? He wants to date you, not get married. Go out, make out, have some fun.”

“I couldn’t.” Grace blushed, glancing around in case anyone heard. “Not if I don’t like him like that.” She paused, studying Palmer. “Why, do you do it?”

“What, hook up?” Palmer gave her a look. “In case you haven’t noticed, guys aren’t exactly lining up to ask me out. Or in.”

“But you’re great,” Grace said, confused.

“I like to think so.” Palmer grinned. “But the male population of this town doesn’t seem to agree. Apparently, I’m too intimidating.”

“What?” Grace exclaimed. “How do you figure that?”

“Let me see.” Palmer began to count off on her fingers. “There’s my charm and beauty, obviously.”

Grace laughed. “Obviously.”

“Plus, my inability to tolerate bullshit; penchant for multisyllabic words; the fact I don’t care what anyone thinks. According to the world, that all adds up to one angry feminist bitch.”

“Then they’re crazy,” Grace told her. “And it’s their loss.”

“Sure, I know that.” Palmer sighed, her sarcasm slipping for a moment. “But that doesn’t stop me from sitting home alone, wondering if I’ll ever get to go on an actual date.”

“Then we’ll stay home together,” Grace said. “Because I’m not dating anytime soon either.”

“Yes, but that’s because you’re all sensible and mature.” Palmer tsked disapprovingly. “I want to have wild reckless adventures while I’m still too young to know better.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Grace told her. “Hallie was wild and reckless, and now look at her: she hasn’t changed her sweatpants in three days.”

Hallie was still curled up in bed when Grace got back to the house, so she ventured to their mom’s studio for advice.

“Just a second, sweetie,” Valerie cried, not looking up from the huge canvas that covered half the wall. “I’m in my flow.”

Grace idled in the doorway. The annex was a converted conservatory with a high glass roof and sharp light flooding through; unfinished paintings propped against the wall and dried paint palettes cracking on every surface. A corner was now devoted to Valerie’s spiritual well-being: a yoga mat rolled up beside a small Buddha statue and bamboo plants, wind chimes tinkling from the window. It was easy for Grace to be dubious about the morning meditations, and the new love of Eastern philosophy, but the move had been good for her mother, Grace knew. She was still distracted and flighty, but it was an animated frenzy of activity, not the absent, glassy-eyed remoteness that had enfolded her after John’s death. As Grace watched, her mom hurled great slashes of vivid purple paint at the abstract canvas that seemed almost alive with light and color.

“There.” Valerie finally caught her breath. She lowered the brush and turned to Grace. “What do you think?”

“I like it.” Grace didn’t pretend to understand her mother’s art. What had started with neat paintings of fruit in bowls and the bay at dusk had, over the years, spiraled into something wildly abstract, every canvas more obscure than the last. “The color’s great,” she offered.

Her mom smiled. “It’s coming along. Now, what did you want to talk about?”

“Hallie.” Grace sighed, still feeling like she was six years old, tattling on her sister for breaking the vase on the hall table. “You know, she hasn’t gotten out of bed all week.”

“She just needs time.” Her mom began rinsing her brushes in the porcelain sink. “Her poor heart’s been broken.”

“But she did this before!” Grace protested. “For months, over Dad. It’s not good for her.”

“Grief is the air we breathe,” her mom replied, a calm look on her face. “Our tears wash the past away.”

“They’re not washing anything away,” Grace tried to argue. “She’s drowning in them!”

Her mom moved closer, and pulled Grace into a hug. “You don’t understand, this is natural. It’s only when the well of sorrow has irrigated the plains of our heart that we can plant new crops.”

Perfect.

“So you won’t talk to her?” Grace asked, already defeated.

“She’ll get up when she’s ready.” Valerie turned back to the canvas. “I can’t rush her.”

Their mom may not be in any rush, but Grace was.

She perched on the edge of the bed, watching her sister sniffle quietly. “Maybe a nice hot bath would make you feel better,” she suggested hopefully. “You could use the one in the master suite, with the whirlpool jets, and all of Amber’s aromatherapy candles.”

Hallie shook her head listlessly. “What’s the point? He’s met someone else, I can feel it!”

“The point is, it’s been days since you had a shower,” Grace pointed out. “Do you want fungus to start growing in your toes?”

“That doesn’t happen.”

“You want to bet?” Grace looked at her, lying there helplessly as if someone had died all over again. But they hadn’t. Was this really going to be Hallie’s fate: to take to her bed indefinitely at every sign of heartache? Grace felt a flicker of impatience.

“Come on.” She stood, and threw back the covers.

Hallie whimpered.

“You’re getting up, and taking that bath,” Grace informed her briskly. “And then we’re going to do something about those sweatpants.” She looked at the mangy gray fabric pooling around Hallie’s legs. “Laundry is too good for them, I’m thinking we burn them.”

“Leave me alone.” Hallie rolled away, burying her head in the pillows.

“Nope!” Grace grabbed her arm and pulled her upright.

“A bath won’t help.” Hallie began to cry again. “Nothing will help. He’s gone. He’s not coming back!”

“But I’m here.” Grace yanked her out of bed. “And I can’t look at you like this another day. Or smell you like this. No offense,” she added. “What if one of your friends comes over? Do you really want them to see you like this?”

Hallie paused, catching sight of herself in the mirror. “Well,” she ventured in a small voice, “maybe that bath wouldn’t be too bad. Can we light Amber’s Diptyque candles?”

“Absolutely.” Grace felt like cheering. Basic hygiene may not seem like much, but after seven solid days of moping, it counted as a major achievement for Hallie. “Go crazy with the candles. And use all the Crème de la Mer bath foam you can find!”

With Hallie soaking in five hundred dollars’ worth of bath products, and those sweatpants safely dispatched to the garbage, Grace wandered into the kitchen, in search of snacks, and human interaction that didn’t involve a pack of Kleenex.

“Grace, sweetie!” Amber was lounging at the table, drinking a glass of wine with one of her friends. Grace had tried to tell them apart, but it was hard: an identical sea of twentysomethings with the same blown-out hair, designer jeans, and oversize diamonds on their wedding finger. This one was dark haired and skinny in the way Grace had only ever seen in L.A. Professionally underfed, all sharp cheekbones and protruding clavicle. “You remember Missy, right?”

“Sure, hi.” Grace smiled and went to the fridge.

“How is she doing?” Amber’s forehead crinkled with concern. “Her poor sister,” she explained to Missy, “just had her heart trampled by some scoundrel.”

“Awww, poor thing. When I’m feeling the breakup blues, I always go straight to Fred Segal.” Missy suggested, “There’s nothing like a new purse to cheer you up. Except shoes!”

“Thanks,” Grace said, trying not to smile. “I’ll pass that on.”

There was a noise behind her; Grace turned to find a girl about Hallie’s age toting a toddler in her arms. She had auburn hair, and a smattering of freckles, with food stains trailing down her shirt. “She won’t stay down,” the girl said apologetically, her voice crisp with a British accent. “I’ll just play with her here for a while, if that’s OK?”

“Whatever!” Missy looked entirely unconcerned. “This is Lucy, my new gem of a nanny. She just moved out here, and doesn’t know anyone. Maybe you girls could chat?”

“Sure.” Grace smiled at Lucy, and joined her over by the range. “Welcome to L.A. I’m Grace,” she added.

“Grace, of course.” Lucy lit up. “So lovely to meet you! I’d shake your hand, but . . .” She held the baby up.

Grace grinned, holding up her plate of leftovers. “No need.”

“Missy, babe, before you go, I need some advice.” Amber looked deadly serious. “I have a benefit coming up, and I can’t decide on the right shoes!”

Missy stood. “Black tie, white tie, cocktail, or casual?” she asked, with all the focus of a military sergeant, and followed Amber out of the room.

Grace waited until they were gone, then took their place at the table. “I didn’t know there were so many variables when it came to shoes.” She gave Lucy a friendly smile, remembering what it had been like to venture into rooms full of strangers when she first arrived in town.

“Obviously,” Lucy replied. “That’s not even starting on the open-toe dilemma!”

Grace laughed, assembling her leftovers into a makeshift sandwich. “So you’re from England, huh? That’s a long way from home.”

“I’m on my gap year, before university,” Lucy explained. “I always wanted to travel, and with nannying, I get to go all kinds of places.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Grace turned her attention to her midafternoon snack while Lucy stowed the child in the temporary playpen in the corner. When she looked up, Lucy was sitting across from her, fixing Grace with an unflinching stare.